


Peppermints

by fictionalfeelsandfrustrations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Just me writing at night, M/M, i don't even know what this is, not quite, smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalfeelsandfrustrations/pseuds/fictionalfeelsandfrustrations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock notices things. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peppermints

**Author's Note:**

> This is seriously just my friend giving me a prompt and me writing it, sort of.
> 
> The prompt was: A broken wristwatch, peppermints, and a hug that goes too far.
> 
> So. 2 out of 3 I think.
> 
> I know this doesn't really feel finished. I might come back and add to it, but right now it's as finished as it's going to get.

John stumbled into the flat, out of breath. He heard the shower running. That would be Sherlock, finally up, though it was near mid-day. He paused momentarily in the doorway to check his pulse.

 

Damn. His wristwatch wasn't going. He tried, for a moment, to remember when he'd last looked at it. No, he couldn't. He'd grown accustomed to checking his phone often for texts from Sherlock. He generally just checked the time then. He would have to get that fixed. But not now. Right now, he wanted water.

 

He walked quickly into the kitchen and turned the tap on. While he waited for the water to get cold, he pulled off the jumper he'd worn jogging and threw it into the front room. The chilly air felt wonderful against his damp skin. After he got a glass of water he would go change properly. He tested the water and reached over to get a glass from the cupboard. As he opened the door, he was greeted with a tremendous clatter. He jumped back, startled. He took a steadying breath and realized what had fallen. Several jawbones were now strewn across the floor.

 

His eyes narrowed. "Dammit, Sherlock," John growled.

 

"It was for an experiment. But now you've mucked it up."

 

John jumped again at the deep voice behind him. He turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He didn't look particularly pleased.

 

"Well, if you wouldn't...keep it..." John trailed off. The fire under his frustration died out and was replaced with an entirely different heat as he realized that Sherlock was wearing only a towel, perched on his hips. For a brief moment, John allowed his eyes to wander Sherlock's body. He noted the aggressively poor posture of the lean man on the door-jamb in front of him, suggesting he was reasonably comfortable. He saw Sherlock's sloping shoulders, prominent collar-bones, delicate chest, flat stomach. And those damn hip-bones, peeking out from under the towel reminding him that he was checking out his mostly-naked flat mate. He shot his eyes back up to Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock still looked like he wanted to scold John about the jaw-bones, so he decided he hadn't lingered too long. "I see you've finally gotten up for the day," he said, gulping back the vague arousal he encountered whenever Sherlock wandered around undressed.

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He moved toward John. "Although, my shower was interrupted by your running the tap. I heard a rumpus and assumed you'd opened the cupboard."

 

John just nodded as Sherlock moved past him. He could still faintly smell Sherlock's shampoo. The light hit just right and John could see a splattering of water drops on his shoulders where he hadn’t dried off completely. He watched as Sherlock moved to turn off the tap.

 

"I was thirsty," he managed to choke out.

 

Sherlock turned to look at John and rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, John. I don't mind about the shower. I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring up biscuits for tea."

 

Sherlock turned back around and John watched as he stooped to grab a jaw-bone. The curve where Sherlock's back turned into his arse fascinated John whenever he saw it. The unexpectedness of this long slim man's fantastically lush rear excited him. Then Sherlock reached up and replaced his experiment in the cupboard. John watched his shoulder and back muscles flex. It was not often that John was able to see Sherlock's body work without at least one of Sherlock's skin-tight silk button-ups in the way. He wondered what it would be like to run his fingers down those shoulders. He let himself imagine running his tongue along the lines of the muscles. He felt his jogging trousers grow tighter. Sherlock turned to face him and an incredible blush crept up John's neck.

 

Sherlock stepped toward him with a look in his eyes that John knew all too well. He was deducing, damn him. The blush snaked its way up to his ears. He knew that between the bulge in his trousers and blush working its way steadily up his face, he was transparent with lust. He was sure Sherlock was about to launch into a description of sexual arousal. Would this be it? Would he finally have Sherlock? Or would he be rebuked for wanting Sherlock in that way? Would he—

 

His thoughts stopped short as Sherlock stood only inches from him. He could smell the shampoo again, clean and brisk and fresh. He wondered how much stronger it would be if he got closer. He noticed that a hank of hair had fallen from the slicked back mess of curls. He could reach out and swipe it back. He was close enough. But he knew that right now, if he touched Sherlock at all, he wouldn't be able to stop. He focused back on Sherlock's eyes. What was he thinking?

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"I know your little secret, John."

 

John's eyes widened. 

 

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has their weaknesses," Sherlock assured, patting John on the shoulder. What did that mean? Sherlock rarely touched him. He made himself pause and realize that he was already over-reacting.

 

"Well, thanks for that." He took a steadying breath. "How long have you known?"

 

Sherlock gave John the look that told him he was being dull. "It became apparent as soon as I walked into the room."

 

John shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide the semi-erection that had indeed been plaguing him since Sherlock had entered the kitchen. He hadn’t thought it was  _that_  obvious. Then again, it was Sherlock.

 

"And you're alright with it?" he asked, half-hopeful, half-terrified.

 

"Why would it bother me?" Sherlock asked, visibly confused.

 

"I just didn't thing you'd like it. Married to your work and all," John mumbled, looking anywhere but Sherlock's eyes now.

"Well, obviously we can't all be as focused as I am. But I don't see how a few sweets would detract too much of your attention." Sherlock was still looking mildly confused.

 

John gaped. He felt like his whole brain was floundering. Finally, he managed a strangled sounding "What."

 

"Come, now, John. The sweets you stopped for while you were supposed to be jogging. I thought that was a ridiculous idea from the beginning," Sherlock mused. "You're already in fine shape." Did he look a bit flushed, or was John imagining that?

 

John shook his head. "The sweets?"

 

Sherlock flashed his watch-my-brilliance smile. "Of course, John. As soon as I walked into the room, I could smell peppermint. As I know that is your favorite, I guessed you'd stopped for some during your jog. I noticed a receipt from the corner market, where you buy jam, in your pocket, but there's no jam out." Sherlock took a breath. He'd spoken quickly, as he often did when explaining his reasoning. "Now, let me see your hand," he finished.

 

"You noticed the receipt in my pocket. That's what you noticed," John muttered.

 

"Your hand, John. Please," he added as an afterthought.

 

John looked at Sherlock's hand, open, waiting for his own. God, but his fingers were long. John gritted his teeth and laid his hand in Sherlock's. Sherlock began touching John's finger tips.

 

"As I suspected," he announced. "Sticky." Triumph spread across his face. John couldn't help but smile.

 

"Good God, Sherlock. Yes," John sighed with relief. "Yep. Peppermints. You're right as usual."

 

Sherlock nodded at John's confirmation. "You can hardly try to hide things from me, John. Even the thought is silly. I notice things. Do try to keep that in mind."

 

John wondered at Sherlock. He noticed things, did he? He knew that John's fingers would still be sticky and where the receipt in his pocket was from. And yet. Maybe Sherlock knew and didn't want to bring it up. That would be understandable. John certainly didn't want to.

 

Did he?

 

He had actually been thinking about that often lately. He'd basically stopped try to hide it. He had never come on to Sherlock, though Lord knows he'd imagined it often enough. He had stopped taking too many pains to hide it when he was aroused. Maybe he did want Sherlock to know.

 

"John, you're holding onto my hand," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat annoyed.

 

Did John want Sherlock to know how he felt?

 

"Are you ill? You're flushed. Do you need to sit down?"

 

John's reverie was broken by Sherlock's tone. He focused once more on Sherlock's eyes. He saw actual concern. Sherlock was worried, genuinely worried, about another person. About John. Because he was flushed? Was it possible that Sherlock cared for him more than he let on? Well. Now John needed to know. A wicked idea flashed through his mind.

 

"Yes." John had made a decision. "Come sit with me." He held firmly onto Sherlock's hand now. Sherlock started to turn in the direction of the front room, but John pulled gently in the opposite direction. Sherlock shot him a startled look, which quickly turned puzzled. However, he followed.

 

"John, we could much more easily sit in the front room," Sherlock remarked, putting up a small amount of force.

 

"No," said John simply.

 

"But our chairs..."

 

"No."

 

"And have tea? I'll make it if you're unwell, of course."

 

John turned to smile at Sherlock as they entered his bedroom. "That's lovely of you, Sherlock, but no. I think your bed will be better."

 

He shut the door with a push and then sat on the bed. The tension in the room was palpable. Not all of it was sexual. John and Sherlock looked at each other expectantly for a few seconds. 

 

"Well, Sherlock, have a seat," John finally said. He patted his lap. Oh, he basked in how wide Sherlock's eyes went before they narrowed to barely visible slits. He couldn't help grinning.

 

"I will sit with you if you wish, since you don't feel well. But I am not a child, John. I'm not going to sit on your lap." John decided to take it as a good sign that he hadn't left the room already.

 

John sighed. "Alright. I'll try this a different way then." He rose from the bed and walked toward Sherlock, backing him against the door.

 

"John?"

 

"What, Sherlock? You never noticed this?" he asked, moving his now fully erect cock against Sherlock's thigh. "Would you like to take a crack at deducing what I'd like to do to you?" He smirked at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock's eyes widened in something John could only call terror. He stepped back. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock. Oh god, what had he done? How would their relationship, their friendship, ever recover from this? John looked at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to apologize but nothing would come out.

 

Then Sherlock reached out and took his hands. "John...I don't know...how...to," he stammered.

 

John's heart melted. He stepped back toward Sherlock. He placed Sherlock's hand on his shoulders. A shiver ran though his body at the skin contact and the thought that those long slim fingers were finally touching him. He moved his own hands to Sherlock's hips. He felt the towel's roughness along the side of his hand. He traced along Sherlock's hip bones, moving his thumbs slightly under the towel to reach them all. Sherlock gasped. He looked up and saw heat in Sherlock's eyes. John grinned.

 

From his hips, John moved his fingers up Sherlock's sides. Goosebumps sprang up in their wake. John thought about leaning over to kiss them, but decided that he wanted to just keep touching him. He brushed his hands up his chest. He felt something against his hip. He looked down.

 

"Yes, John," he heard Sherlock breathe. "I seem to like that quite a lot."

 

John chuckled. He ran his hands back down Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shivered and gripped his shoulders a little more tightly. Back up the chest. Sherlock leaned toward him. John was losing his mind. Sherlock was warm beneath his fingers, so pale compared to his light tan, so long. He moved his hands around to the back of Sherlock's neck.

 

Sherlock inhaled sharply when John leaned against him to put his lips to Sherlock's ear. Skin touching skin, everything slightly damp, warm, smooth. John whispered, "Let me show you."

 

He moved one hand down to Sherlock's lower back to pull his whole body close. He needed Sherlock's entire length against his own. The towel was against his hand again. Sherlock's hips pressed to his waist. He felt Sherlock's cock hard against his hip and grew harder in response. They weren't lined up properly. He would have to do something about that. But first. His other hand found its way into Sherlock's damp mess of dark curls. John pulled his head down slightly until their lips met.

 


End file.
